


Our Sun Rises In The West

by TheTadielBard



Category: Dream SMP-Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Not RPF - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Everyone Needs A Hug, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Found Family, Gen, Good Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Parent Cara | CaptainPuffy, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Cara | CaptainPuffy, Protective Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Ram Hybrid Toby Smith | Tubbo, Sheep Hybrid Cara | CaptainPuffy, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Whump, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Winged TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), he's trying, no beta we die, probably, we just die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:15:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29945046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTadielBard/pseuds/TheTadielBard
Summary: There are many rules in exile. But if Tommy could just break one--if he could just fly--than maybe all of this would be okay. The fear of being caught by Dream keeps him grounded.Ie: Dream cuts Tommy off from everyone that cares about him, but he underestimates how loved Tommy is.
Relationships: Cara | CaptainPuffy & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 218
Collections: Dream SMP fics





	1. Long Day's Journey Into Night

In the east, the sun was setting. 

Tommy stood on the edge of the sea, his bare feet leaving shallow marks in the sand. The warmth of the day was quickly fading from the beach, and there was a touch of autumn in the air. The dying sunlight turned the tips of the blue waves golden and cast the edge of the darkening horizon with orange. 

Waves rolled gently here, against the sandy beach. Farther down the coast though, Tommy knew, the waves were crashing against the jagged rocks beneath the cliffs. He shuddered, trying to push the memories of those cliffs aside. Here the water just drifted to shore, and the swirls of salted sea foam occasionally danced around his ankles with a soothing coolness. 

No matter how tightly he clenched his hands into fists, Tommy found that he could not stop them from trembling. He was shaking like a leaf in the wind, and it wasn’t just for the onsetting cold. And where it once might have been for anger, he knew he was lying to himself to say that it was anything but _fear_ these days. Because no matter how many sunsets he watched on this beach, the dawn never seemed to come with any true brightness. Only fear. Always fear. 

Or maybe it was just exhaustion. And starvation? 

_(When was the last time you ate?)_

Tommy abruptly fell to his knees, his tattered khakis splashing in the water. The compass weighed heavily on his chest. Behind him, the longer feathers of his drooping wings dipped in the surf. He would have loved to fly now, but he honestly could not find the energy. Everything was too much these days--a struggle to just survive, an insurmountable task to enjoy it. Besides, he could scarcely even _think_ about flying without the anxiety tremors intensifying. 

Dream’s voice--it never really left him these days--screamed in his ears. Threats about if Tommy ever flew were common, and they had been from the very beginning. The very existence of Tommy’s wings seemed to anger Dream most days--he had a feeling that if they weren’t a way for Dream to control him, Dream would have...fulfilled his threats a long time ago. 

Tommy shuddered, releasing the death grip he had on the sand to wrap his skinny, dirty arms around his chest in some sad mockery of a hug. His wings itched with a pain that could not be soothed--and as his efforts at personal hygiene and preening slipped, it was only getting worse. _Could_ he even fly now, if he tried, with his feathers so askew? A wave of shame washed over him, and it did not roll smoothly like the water did across the sand surrounding him. It crashed against the rocks with brutal violence. 

Phil had been so _proud_ of Tommy’s wings growing up. Wilbur had always had his brains-- _Ender_ knows Tommy could have never kept up with his brother there--and Techno had his rugged aptitude for adventuring that so closely matched with their adoptive father’s, but Tommy and Phil had always had the sky in common. Their wings weren’t even the same--Tommy’s were closer to a hawk and Phil’s to a raven--but they shared in the gift of flight. 

It was Phil that had taught him to be protective of his wings--taught him to preen them, to tuck them close against his back, to care for them after a fight, to avoid weather that would damage them...

_It was all he ever loved about you. Probably the only reason he didn’t leave you to die._

_(Except he did leave you to die,)_ A more sinister voice whispered, deep inside him. Tommy couldn’t quite tell if it was Dream’s or his own. _(They all did. Why do you think no one else is here? Your family finally realized the mistake they made. Your old friends finally got sick of you. Even Ghostbur only shows up out of pity._

_Besides, they’re better off without you)._

Night would be falling soon. Monsters would soon be roaming the highland plains behind him. Tommy honestly could not remember the last time he had been legitimately afraid of those monsters--before exile, of course. Because before exile, he had always been armed. Prepared. Protected. But Dream had made the nighttime something to be fearful of again. 

Tommy shivered, and knew he should stand. But even if the _Trent_ would be somewhat warmer, it felt so far away. Part of him wanted to just lay down in the water, pass out, and let the incoming tide wash over him until the ocean claimed his last life. 

He wondered where the currents would take him. Would he just end up a bloated corpse on the beach? Would the waves carry him along with them to crash against the cliffs? Would he find himself dragged downwards by some underwater magic--would his corpse return as a drowned? 

He did not want to admit it--because it was selfish to want this and Dream was trying so _hard_ to help him not be selfish anymore--but part of him hoped the waves would carry him...home....

And even as he thought that, Tommy realized that he could not discern exactly where _home_ was supposed to be anymore. It certainly could not be the country he had been exiled from months prior. If he really cared to long for home, it was the memory of a cabin in a sunlit oak forest with purple wildflowers growing around it and a red door…

But that was a home he had never deserved. Belatedly, Tommy realized he had been crying. 

It suddenly felt much cooler on the beach than it had when he first walked out here. 

Angrily brushing away the tears with the edge of his grimy, torn shirt, Tommy stood with a sudden burst of energy. His body screamed in protest. His muscles, overworked in the mines, _ached._ The patchwork of old and new bruises hurt each at the slightest contact. He was fairly certain his wrist must have been sprained at the least. The scabs of aging cuts protested the stretching of his pallid skin as he moved to stand. 

Everything was too much. 

But night would be falling soon. 

Night would be falling soon…

And, surely, he had merely forgotten the reason to live and not lost it entirely. 

Slowly, wearily, Tommy left the ocean behind and made his way to the sad canvass of his tent-home. There might not have been any real warmth there to hold back the growing night, but he would go to the nether for warmth before he lit a fire (fire terrified him these days). And the tent would hold back the cooling sea breeze and he could wrap his wings around himself and pretend that he was okay…

The dawn rose pale in the west. The light of it brought him out of the clouds of a pleasant dream of warmth and safety and freedom. Tommy groaned, his exhaustion protesting the beginning of the day in every fiber of his being. 

“Five more minutes dad…” He grumbled, shifting his wings to block the light. If he were there, Phil would have said something, might have threatened to send Techno in with a bucket of water. 

But Phil wasn’t there. They were a long ways off from those days. Tommy was alone, and there were only the sounds of the wind coming off the highland plains and the waves lapping at the distant shore to rouse him. That and the gnawing hunger pains growing in his stomach. The pain twisted nauseatingly, reminding him that he had not eaten yesterday before...before Dream had shown up. 

The dull ache of fresh wounds was a reminder of what had happened--a record of the explosion, the kicks, and every punch. It had _started off_ a good day. He’d finally gotten enough iron together again to make some real tools, and he had it in mind to try and start a garden (though he had no idea where he would have gotten the seeds, and it was probably too late in the year to plant anything). In his chest he had an actual piece of cooked beef saved for dinner, not just the stale bread and mushrooms he usually subsisted off of. It had started off a good day. And then Dream showed up. 

Everything went up in smoke, like it always did. 

Now the hunger had taken on a darker edge in his stomach. Tommy got his arms underneath himself and pushed his protesting body into a sitting position on the cot. His hair felt horribly oil and grimy in his hands when he ran his fingers through it, trying to brush out the knots. It was a futile effort in a lot of places--the hair matted and hopelessly tangled. 

He looked around the tent, trying to ground himself in the moment. He didn’t want to lose time today--to blank out and find himself walking away from the forest hours later, no recollection of what had happened. And to stay with it he had to stay _grounded._

Both Phil and Wilbur had tried to teach him about _meditation_ and _breathing techniques_ when he was a kid to help with his anger problems. They told him he needed to ~stay in the moment~. Tommy never understood that--the moment was mediocre at best and, since these were moments he was angry, it was usually worse. But now he wished that he had listened better, because these days it was a struggle to stay in the moment. It was all a struggle. 

Tommy glanced towards the chest in the corner of the tent and felt his stomach churn with anxiety. Theoretically, there would be food in the chest. It wouldn’t be much--just some tack bread or wild mushrooms--but it would be food. But Dream knew that it was there, which decreased the likelihood of it still being there tremendously. 

The logical thing to do was to go and open the chest. Tommy didn’t know how he would handle opening it to find nothing though, wasn’t sure if that would be the bit that broke him. He didn’t have time to fall apart like that--he could feel himself weakening, and he needed food. 

He was steadfastly ignoring the voice that was pointing out not eating breakfast and lunch yesterday was completely illogical. It was perfectly logical--he never knew when he wouldn’t be able to get more food. He had to save what he had, for as long as possible. As long as he wasn’t being stupid and getting hurt, he could survive perfectly fine on one meal a day. Perfectly fine. 

The chest stood undisturbed, almost taunting him. Steeling himself, Tommy got to his feet and walked the short distance to the chest. There was a heaviness and a clumsiness that weighed at his clumsy, pained movements. He felt pathetic. 

Opening the chest only brought tears to his eyes. 

_Clearly,_ he thought to himself bitterly, _you fucked up too much to deserve his pity. Why the hell did you talk back? Don’t you remember the rules?_

The mushrooms and stale bits of bread he had been amassing a small horde of were gone again. The only bit of food remaining was the core of an apple he had found the other day--Dream had eaten it bare down to the seeds, leaving practically nothing. Clearly, Tommy had violated some rule, some principle. Or maybe he had just been too much of a nuisance to deal with, and this was Dream’s revenge. 

_Maybe,_ a small voice suggested in his head, _he wants this to be the end for you._

There wasn’t much else, just his compass, some crumpled polaroid photos that had been knocked out of their even stack, a canteen of water, and the stone axe he had made as a backup while he had iron tools. He doubted he would be able to fight off much with it, but maybe he would get lucky in the forest and find an animal. 

Once again, Tommy was faced with the overwhelming desire to just give up already. 

But he didn’t. He took up the canteen, which sloshed half-full with clear water from a stream in the woods, and took the sharpest edge off the hunger with water. He closed his hand around the handle of the axe. And he stepped out of the tent to head towards the woods. 

At his back, to the south, the sound of the cold waves of the sea were fading. In the west, the sun was rising higher and higher over ground that gave way to cliffs just out of view. Tommy followed the plains biome for a bit to the north, and then turned toward the oak forest. 

Beyond the plains he could see the foothills of a worn down mountain range, and he knew from maps that somewhere it all gave way to tundra, but he knew he would never go that far north. He would never dare try to run away from Dream. There were less painful methods of suicide at his disposal. 

With the wilderness stretching before him like this, Tommy felt impossibly small. It was strange to think that at his back, across a small enough stretch of ocean, was a continent bustling with civilization. People. Out here, bar a few random scattered villages and old structures from a distant past that no one remembered, there wasn’t much of anything. And he was just a...just a skinny boy, dressed in tattered clothes, carrying a sad, empathy leather pouch and a stone axe, trying to survive. 

He felt like nothing remarkable, nothing noteworthy. The sky stretched out above him, out to the distant horizons, but he was a grounded bird. The light did not seem to reach him. There was a sort of path worn into the green highland grass from all the times he had trodden over it, and a path of fallen trees cut in the wood. Neither would have been visible from any great distance. 

He was insignificant. 

And his stomach was rolling with the pain of hunger now. Gripping the axe slightly tighter in trembling fingers, Tommy headed into the woods. 

The mushrooms were bland and tasteless, spongey with the texture of being overboiled, but they didn’t immediately kill him. He ate every morsel he found and drank the water too, though it could hardly be called a broth, and he tried not to think of the fading memory of mushroom stew…

Tommy gripped the wooden bowl in his hands tightly, shaking with the memory. God, he’d been so _stupid._ And Mushroom Henry had paid the price. He still remembered Dream laughing, telling him would eat _meat_ that night instead. 

His wings twitched behind him, itching with the desire to be cleaned. Pulling himself away from the past, Tommy turned and ran a hand down the edge of the left wing. They really were a mess. His darker primaries were a dull black--almost a _sickly_ black--which was a stark contrast to their usually glossy ebony. And the lighter feathers, usually dappled white to grey, were dirty and outright brown in certain areas. 

“Tommy,” At the sound of the harsh voice, barking his name out like it had a bad taste, Tommy felt ice go down his spine. “What the hell are you doing?” 

Dream was standing just beyond the camp, holding a netherite axe casually, like he barely noticed it’s weight and had almost forgotten it was in his hand. That in itself felt threatening--who the hell, outside of war and fights--carried around a weapon so obviously meant to kill wherever it struck? But Tommy knew Dream was threatening even without the weapon. 

Abruptly, he realized he had been staring. Not speaking a word, just staring in abject fear. Dream was still angry. And Dream was probably saying something more now--he wished the man didn’t have that damn mask to hide behind, because he honestly could not find the energy to actually focus and listen. 

The next thing Tommy knew he was on the ground, desperately curled in on him and trying to shield himself with his arms. His wings were tucked painfully close to his body, the muscles in them straining with a dull ache, as if by doing this he could make Dream forget about them. There were blows landing on him--kicks and punches that felt like blasts of fire against his already frail and injured body. 

It was the sound of it that was the worst. Dream was shouting now, and Tommy could hardly process the words. Something about laziness--it was pretty much always about laziness. Maybe Dream just didn’t realize if he hadn’t gone to find the mushrooms he _would_ have died--he was going on about Tommy not even starting on new tools. 

What was the point of mining, when Dream would just blow it up tomorrow? 

This, Tommy thought miserably, was Hell. 

But maybe it wasn’t so bad. Dream didn’t kill him after all (though he was beginning to think that was what he deserved). Dream hadn’t hurt his wings yet--just made him promise not to fly. And he hadn’t, so clearly Dream was a good teacher because Tommy was finally figuring out how to listen to his lessons. That’s what Dream was trying to do--teach him. Help him. 

And before Dream left that day, after he had stopped shouting, he was... _sickeningly_ kind. Sickening because by this point, Tommy was certain he didn’t believe he deserved it. He spoke softly and reassured Tommy that it was okay, he’d just made a mistake and he had to be punished for it. He promised Tommy it would get better, if only he would _listen._ He picked Tommy up--Tommy wasn’t sure he could have stood up if he tried--and left him on the cot with a scratchy wool blanket. And he left him food in the chest after making him drink a cold stew of beef and mushrooms. (Tommy tried not to think about Mushroom Henry). 

It wasn’t so bad. Dream wasn’t so bad, he was Tommy’s _friend._ The only one he had left. 

Months ago, people had visited. Things had been better then--Dream just blew his items up and shouted, didn’t hurt him like he did not. Tubbo, Ranboo, his dad Philza once, heck even _Technoblade_...this woman named Puffy he wasn’t terribly familiar with, but remember meeting once before. She had seemed worried about him. They had all seemed worried about him, in different ways. 

Heck, even Ghostbur had seemed worried before he disappeared. 

Of course that had probably just been him deluding himself in the moment, because none of them came now. They’d all stopped coming, and none of them had shown up to the party. They were just annoyed they had to act pity for him. But Dream had held the evening of the party as he fell apart--Dream had been there. 

So Tommy should be grateful for that, right? 

That anyone would sit by his cot and run their fingers through his hair until he fell asleep (even if the contact of Dream’s skin made his body tremble with fear)--that anyone would put up with him at all--was a miracle. So Tommy would be grateful. 

* * *

Farther north, past the foothills of the mountains Tommy had looked out on, the sun was setting in the east across the barren tundra. But this arctic desert was not so devoid of life. On the southernmost bit of the Tundra, next to a forest of spruce trees, there was a cozy looking cabin that glowed with the pleasant warmth of a fire. 

Inside of it, an aging father sighed deeply as he poured two cups of tea--one for himself and one for his eldest--trying not too long too deeply for the times when he would have poured four cups. Those days were long gone, and he had failed too badly as a parent to ask for them to return. 

One of his sons had died by his own hand. And the youngest wanted nothing to do with him--the note Dream had delivered proved that much. (He tried not to worry about Tommy too much these days. Before Ghostbur had disappeared, he had said Tommy was doing well in exile. Ender, if after everything he had been through Tommy just wanted to settle down in peaceful solitude on the beach, who the hell was he to intrude?) 

There was still a knot of anxiety through, heavy in his heart. Where exactly had Ghostbur gone off too? Techno and him had searched and searched, but they were no closer to finding a way to revive him or even find him. Why hadn’t Tommy wanted to tell them to their faces? 

The answer to that question was simpler, but Phil didn’t want to accept it. Techno and him had lost the right to Tommy’s time. Even when they had visited, Tommy had seemed so busy with setting up his life. Phil had seen in one look that Tommy’s mind was weighed heavily with a great anxiety, and had realized that he had lost the right to ask his son to confide in him. 

He had lost two sons, and he only had two cups of tea to pour. 

* * *

Across a stretch of ocean, a tired teenager sat at the desk of a president, his mind foggy with a haze of sleep deprivation. There was a stack of papers at his desk he really needed to attend to, but he couldn’t find the energy to focus. 

In his hand--a hand that, like the rest of him, was crisscrossed with burn scars--sat a broken compass. It was supposed to point towards Tommy, but the surface was cracked and the enchanted needle gone. It was broken, and Tubbo had broken it, just like he knew he had broken their friendship. 

Sometimes he entertained the idea of sneaking off to see Tommy again--to just say goodbye. But he was terrified of having his worst fears confirmed. It was one thing to feel his heart ripped out and broken by Tommy’s letter--where he had pointed out so plainly how screwed up their friendship had become. It would be another thing to hear Tommy repeat those words in person. 

Tubbo wasn’t certain he could survive it. 

* * *

In a small house built in the warm oak woods of the southern continent--a place that was built for the express purpose of escaping the crowds and politics of the cities--a woman sat at a desk, a book and quill before her. The place was small, but it served its purpose. There was room for everything--down to the peg by the door that she hung her long blue captain’s coat and hat on. 

Her mind was troubled. The more she learned about the past--the more those stupid books she found began to fill in the holes and make sense--the more she was realizing how badly she screwed everything up. And the more she learned about the history of the place she had woken up, the more she was appalled. 

The letter Dream had handed to her months ago still weighed heavily in her pocket. It just didn’t make sense--Tommy had seemed tired when she was there, but not like he was totally angered by her presence. But the town of the letter was downright vindictive--Tommy sounded like he _hated_ her. 

And from all she knew of the kid--down to the horrifying stories of how adults had let him sacrifice two of his lives in the wars--it didn’t seem like Tommy was capable of that kind of senseless, unjustifiable hatred. Maybe during the wars Tommy had hated Dream, and she certainly wouldn’t be surprised if he was at the least _angry_ with Technoblade, but what...what had she done? 

How did she screw this up so badly? 

Puffy didn’t like this one bit. Tommy was clearly alone--and she wasn’t certain that solitude was as self-imposed as it seemed, because Dream definitely still visited him. She could understand wanting to get away--hell, that was why she built this cabin--but why Dream? 

Why Dream, indeed. 

Dream...Puffy had to separate him from the kid she had raised. They weren’t the same. Not by a long shot. Dream and her were polite at least when they spoke now, but the warmth was gone. She didn’t want it to be, but it was. 

The realization was horrifying; she didn’t trust her own son anymore. 

How the hell had they all fucked this all up so badly?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record I know the sun rises in the east, this is an attempt at worldbuilding. A rather pathetic attempt, but whatever.  
> Umm I'm not really certain what this is or how long it will go. I don't really understand the SMP canon, so this is...an interesting amalgamation of the bits my brain latched onto. Don't expect this to update regularly.


	2. Icarus Grounded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy is experiencing suicidal ideation in this. I know this is just a random fanfic on the internet, but for the record...  
> I've been there and it isn't normal to think about suicide. It isn't normal to even seriously consider killing yourself. Find help, please. You deserve to live. Read this if it brings you comfort. Do not read this if it will in any way negatively affect your mental health.

“Oh Tommy,” a soft voice greeted him when he groggily opened his eyes to the pale morning. “How are you feeling? You had a rough night.” 

_ No thanks to you, ass,  _ a more bitter, ungrateful part of Tommy’s brain thought as he recognized Dream’s voice. Part of him was glad that voice wasn’t dead yet. Part of him was terrified of what the voice represented---danger. That voice would only get him in trouble. 

“Tommy?’ 

Tommy blinked, bringing the world into focus. He didn’t actually feel that bad, which was strange considering how he remembered feeling before he fell asleep. A quick stock of the aches and pains in his body didn’t actually reveal anything alarming--he even felt well fed for the first time in...awhile. 

“Em, ‘m alright,” Tommy groaned, shifting his weight to sit up and--

Froze. He couldn’t move his wings. He couldn’t move his wings, and there was something tight cutting into them, like a rope and  _ he couldn’t move his wings and it felt like iron bands had been tightened around his chest and he couldn’t move his wings and he couldn’t breathe and this felt like dying-- _

“Tommy!” Dream slapped him. Not hard, no, just to get his attention. Dream didn’t want to hurt him, just help him. That’s what he said he was trying to do--help him. Tommy should be grateful but  _ Ender  _ this was a nightmare he couldn’t move his wings-- “Tommy, breathe with me. Yes, like that. You’re okay.” 

“W...why?” Tommy managed to croak at last, his voice choking on his tears. 

It hurt. It felt like someone had reached inside him and tied a noose around something integral to his very being--it felt like a noose on the very spirit of his soul. Every instinct in him was screaming for release, and he was unconsciously clenching the muscles in his wings. That only made the ropes tighter, more painful. 

“Oh Tommy,” Dream said, his voice soft again. “It’s for your own good. You know the story of Icarus, right? Nobody loved Icarus, Tommy. Nobody loved him enough to ground him for his own good. It’s for your protection. I have to keep you safe.” 

The dawn rose in the west and passed into the east, and Dream insisted Tommy take the day to rest in the tent and eat. Dream seemed to be in a good mood, and Tommy couldn’t help but lean into every slight bit of affection the man gave him. He knew it wouldn’t last--he’d screw up eventually--but for the moment, he was willing to appreciate it. 

And, strangely, it lasted. 

After several days, Tommy figured he must have finally figured out how to do something right because Dream was being  _ nice  _ to him. Not just kind--the man had been kind to help him, teach him, make him less destructive to society--but nice. He said good morning. He said  _ good job.  _

More days came and went from east to west. Dream proposed the idea of building a more permanent structure on the beach, and offered to help him gather the materials to do it. The thought of having more than canvass between him and approaching winter was appealing, so Tommy was enthusiastic about this. 

Perhaps too enthusiastic. Dream’s temper still wore thin at times, and Tommy didn’t know how to not set him off. It constantly felt a bit like walking on eggshells (only the eggshells were broken glass and cutting into the soles of his feet) but he preferred this. Dream still blew up his stuff every once and a while, but it was okay. 

Tommy couldn’t let himself get too attached to the little cabin (it was really more of a shack). That would probably only increase the chance of losing it. 

He helped Tommy start a potato farm that could survive the winter (and even though potatoes brought back  _ bitter  _ memories for Tommy, he was trying hard to be grateful). He let Tommy keep his food chest--didn’t even touch anything. Tommy could feel his body sighing with relief with the effect of regular meals. 

Tommy’s wings stayed bound behind him. It itched. It hurt with a dull ache--like a background, ringing tinnitus that he couldn’t get to shut up. (At one point he contemplated whether it would just be better to be wingless. But he couldn’t let himself think like that--no. The wings were him and he was his wings, he’d just have to earn the right to fly again. He had to be better than Icarus). 

This was okay, he reasoned. At least he wasn’t alone out here. 

He wished he hadn’t driven them all off--that Tubbo, or Phil, or Techno, or Ghostbur, or Ranboo, or even that Puffy lady would come back...but he’d burned those bridges. He’d lost the right to demand their attention. He had to be grateful that he at least had Dream…

Tommy didn’t want to go to the Nether. Dream had let him build up the resources for a full set of iron armor and tools--he held a perfectly serviceable iron sword in hand--but he did not want to go to the Nether. But Dream was insisting--raising his voice now, pointing out how lazy Tommy was being--so there really wasn’t much choice. They were just going to go mining, and Dream said if he was good he might get to keep some of what they gathered…

As Tommy walked behind Dream to the portal, he tried not to think about the difference between this trip and his first trip into the Nether. He’d never exactly had what could be called a  _ formal _ education, but Phil had taught them how to survive. How to fight. And he made sure they had the time to explore other interests--there were always books in the house to read, stories to learn...but Phil’s priority had been teaching them survival. 

That necessitated, at a certain point, trips to the Nether. Technoblade had been enthusiastic on his first trip, Wilbur had been a bit grump about it, and Tommy...Tommy had been terrified. Phil could tell, for all that thirteen-year-old Tommy tried to hide it behind a mirage. But it helped knowing that he had Phil and Technoblade there to guard his back, and Phil hadn’t let any of them even step close to a portal without making them a set of fully-enchanted netherite armor first. (Tommy missed the days of his father being overprotective. He missed the days of anyone being protective of him). 

Tommy had none of that now--not enchanted armor, not someone he trusted to look out for him. And he was terrified--he felt like a weak, pathetic kid again. He hated the feeling. 

But there was no turning back. Dream was walking just a step ahead of Tommy. Even if he tried to run, he wouldn’t get far. The obsidian portal had been built at the top of the cliffs, and they were already halfway up the uneven path. Tommy shivered, the autumn wind was cold with the air off the sea and the cooling season. He spared a glance back, and once again was struck by how inconsequential he was in comparison with the rest of the wild world. 

The little shack, the potato farm, the tent---all of it was insignificant to the vast highland plains, ancient mountains, and forests that man had not yet tamed. There was, however, perhaps a touch of freedom in that. Tommy fell a gust of wind billow down the cliffs they were climbing, and watched as the gust danced in the grass down the entirety of the landscape before him. He could have ridden that wind, if his wings were free. He would have ridden that wind, once. 

Phil had told him once that being a hybrid was about more than physical features--that there was a bit of the wild living within their minds and hearts. Tommy hadn’t really understood that, until the first time he almost died and he felt the instinct truly calling to him. Part of him had the wild instincts of nature in it. He felt the call of those same instincts now--felt a deep desire to fly into that vast expanse before him and become one with it. 

“Tommy,” Dream’s voice was sharp, his patience clearly wearing thin. Tommy had pushed him too harshly this morning--that was dangerous. He had to do better. He was not a free bird, he did not have the liberty to choose the winds he followed. 

The edge of the cliff was terrifying. It came out to a narrow edge, and as they walked farther onto the rock it seemed as though the sky was larger somehow. The sky was grey that day, overcast with the chance of rain. And the portal was at the edge of the edge, surrounded on all sides bar the side they approach from by only a narrow stretch before the oblivion of the edge. The purple light of the Nether magic hummed with an air of danger. 

Tommy had been up here before--he had considered many times what it would feel like to fall off the edge and crash into the stormy waters and rocks below. One time, when he’d been particularly rude to Dream, the man had dragged him up here and held him over the edge. He’d threatened to let go. Even then, when Tommy could have saved himself from the rocks, it was terrifying. That day he had begged to live. And yet he had returned of his own will that same evening to contemplate not flying, but intentionally falling. 

It would be certain death to fall now, with his wings bound Tommy turned to the beckoning darkness of the Nether portal, and shuddered. He would not be able to save himself from even a simple misstep off the path. 

Which would be less painful, a death in the water or the lava? 

The lava and the heat were terrifying in a way that the days spent on the beach were not. There, except for brief explosions, the fear was mostly internalized. It was a fear of what might be, not of what necessarily was. Theoretically, Tommy always reasoned, there was a chance that he finally did things right and Dream never hurt him again. But here, the lava had at least the decency to be upfront about it’s threat. To fall was death. 

And, pausing on the high walkway that connected two cliffs of netherrack, Tommy looked down at the swirling light and pondered that for a moment. He was sweating through the rags of his clothing, and he had given up on trying to brush the sweat from his eyes so his vision was blurry. The light of the lava held a certain appeal to it. Certainty was a difficult thing to find these days…

“Tommy!” He was snapped back into focus by the slap. The sound of it registered more than the sensation, actually. Dream was certainly scowling behind his mask. “What are you thinking?! You need to stay focused. We’re in the Nether! It’s dangerous here--that skeleton could have killed you!” 

Tommy stared at him for a moment, trying to remember how to speak. “What skeleton?” 

Dream seemed taken aback. “Tommy,” he said, and his voice had that sweetness to it now that left a bitter, nauseating taste behind it. “Were you...were you going to jump into the lava?” 

Tommy continued staring at the man, then turned and looked back to the light of the lava--Dream’s grip on his wrist tightened painfully at that--and then turned back to Dream. He could not find the words to answer, to deny it, and that was an answer in and of itself. 

“Oh, Tommy,” he was surely going to be sick if Dream kept talking like that. And, before he could really process what was happening, Dream was pulling him into a hug. A painfully tight, sickening, constrictive, and yet somehow disturbingly comforting hug. It was over quickly, and Dream was holding him at arm’s length. And then his voice was raising again--returning to it’s usual bitterness--and Tommy was brought to the edge of tears. “How the hell could you be so selfish?! You would waste all of my time--my generosity--so stupidly?! At least I care about you--you know no one else does. Why are you so  _ ungrateful _ ?” 

Tommy had no response. Dream shoved him away roughly, with an air of disappointment about him, and turned to walk towards the netherite mines. Tommy was left standing there, on the edge of tears, wishing Dream would have just hit him instead. That was somehow easier. 

“HURRY UP!” 

He took off after Dream at a run. 

* * *

Puffy was pouring out the thought into the pen, and the ink was pouring out of the pen unto the paper. It was dark outside, and the storm was battering her shutters with wind. But she had plenty of candles to burn, and more than a few thoughts to sort out. Her quill scratched rapidly the pages, and her handwriting was slanted with anxiety and worry. 

Abruptly, the tip of the quill snapped. 

She flinched visibly, her long sheep ears twitching back in apprehension. Every muscle in her body tensed. For a moment, all was tense. The silence of the cabin seemed heavy, only broken by the sound of the rain outside, in the absence of the sound of the quill. 

It had left a black splatter of ink that blotted out part of the page. Puffy grimaced, looking at the lines of hasty writing above it. Her words were jumbled and messy and nearly illegible--even if they could have read it, she wasn’t sure what she was trying to say would have made any logical sense to another person. It was all a mess--a tangled mass of threads she could not pull at without tightening some knot of pain. 

Instincts were at war within her. 

She remembered, clearly, Dream’s first pet…

They’d been living together in the cottage at the edge of the village for a year. Dream was maybe nine or ten--neither of them were certain of his exact age. He’d heard village kids talking, and one day he asked her what birthdays were. Determined to keep her oath that her kid would not grow up feeling unloved, she picked the first day of summer for his birthday. On the day of the winter solstice she came home with a surprise. 

The village librarian’s cat had a litter of kittens, but one had yet to be adopted. It had a scar running through the left side of its face after a run in with a hawk that left it half-blind. The other kittens had been easily adopted by children of the village, but this one was perfect for Puffy. For Dream. 

A little bit scarred, a little bit broken, just like the two of them. 

She’d been nervous about taking it home though. Dream was...sensitive about his face and his scar, even after the year they’d spent together. Another villager had told her almost every market day that _Dream needs more socialization_ and _we know you’re trying hun but maybe you oughta let an orphanage take him_ (you’re a failure of a parent). But Dream was terrified of the other kids seeing the scar, and they were terrified of the masks he wore to cover it. It was an ongoing issue. 

So, Puffy--stressed, single-adoptive-20-year-old mother of an 8-year-old kid with way too much trauma to unpack--was a bit anxious about the kitten. But Dream had put all her fears to rest when he met Bubbles. 

Dream Was so... _ gentle.  _ Kind. Caring. Fiercely protective. She had remembered thinking that Dream would grow up to be a good man, a protective man. He’d make a good father, she had thought to herself…

_ Had  _ thought. Now, she knew who he had become. She couldn’t be certain if he were a good man or a bad man, deep at heart, but he wasn’t that same kid. Didn’t have the same intrinsic respect for living things. No--Dream ruled through power and control these days. He wasn’t on a throne, but she had seen how he was. 

The only reason Tommy was even in exile was because of Dream in the first place. People in L’Manburg seemed to forget that--people talked about him like he had been nothing but violent. But Tommy was just...just a boy…

Puffy felt a wave of clarity wash over her. The world around her--which only moments before had been shrouded in a dark haze of conflicting emotions--was pulled into sharp focus. It was illogical to trust Dream, even if the letter he brought her was signed by Tommy. She really couldn’t trust him, not an inch. 

She knew that, and yet for  _ months _ she’d listened. Ender, why had she done that? 

Dream was not her little duckling anymore. She didn’t trust Dream with Tommy’s life--and Tommy might not have any particular connection to her but from what she’d seen it seemed like it had been a long time since an adult had been looking out for the kid. Protecting him. She had to go to the northern continent where Tommy was exiled herself, and make certain that he was okay. 

If he hated her, she supposed that was probably for some justified reason. But she needed to know why, and she needed to make sure he was okay. 

Outside, the storm was still raging. It would not be the first time, or probably the last, that Puffy traveled through bad weather. A journey of at least a day lay ahead of her to get back to L’Manburg--she didn’t know of any closer Nether portals--and she had a growing worry that every wasted minute was dangerous. Determined, Puffy donned her coat, packed her leather pack tightly with her sparse belongings, and blew out the candles behind her. 

* * *

Tommy was certain this was illogical. 

Dream was being  _ nice.  _ He hadn’t gone without meals for whole days now, and Dream hadn’t touched the store in his original chest. So this--this crude barrel hidden in a tiny dugout underneath the shack--was illogical. It didn’t make sense to hide every bit of non-perishable food he could get and stuff it here when Dream was gone. 

But even if he had a full stomach now, he could remember acutely the feeling of bitter hunger--he could remember the feeling of starving. Of dying. And it terrified him how easily it would truly be for Dream to reduce him back to the point, especially with the dropping temperatures. 

So he hoarded food like...like an animal. 

Tommy covered the dugout, leaning against the wall of the shack with a heavy sigh. The sky was filled with clouds and there was a pleasantly warm breeze in the cooling evening--it would have been such a  _ perfect  _ time to fly. Despite the regular meals, he felt tiny and shaky and pathetic and  _ weak.  _

The secret stash made him sick to his stomach with guilt. Dream was...well, he was the only one here so he was the only one Tommy could reasonably call  _ friend.  _ And here Tommy was, going behind his back. Lying to him. He was walking on a bridge of glass and it would take so little to shatter it. 

Everything was at war within him. 

On one hand...the contemplation of death. Every day he woke up and looked at the vast wilderness before him, a lone settler in a world seemingly indifferent to his existence. Every day his life seemed more pointless, more futile. Each meal seemed like only a prolonging of eventual, inevitable starvation. Without anyone to protect, without a cause to fight for, life just felt empty. The bottom of the cliff was more and more tempting…

But on other hand, an instinct to survive. It was partly an almost animalistic fear within him--a desire to live born out of a terror at the alternative. And it was partly an old surviving strain of the Old Tommy--of his old spite. To live, in spite of the vastness before him, seemed like a colossal “fuck off” to...everyone who’d ever hurt him. To Dream. To every betrayal. To the very concept of pain. There had to be something more than this, right? (Belatedly, Tommy realized he was crying.) 

It couldn’t all be pointless. There had to be reasons to live. 

He couldn’t remember them right now, but if he screwed up and made Dream mad he might not be alive long enough to figure this all out. So he had to hoard the food for the inevitable fall out--he had to prepare for his own mistakes. And, now he was thinking about it, there was more that he would need to survive when the fallout came--tools, armor, he began to make a mental checklist. 

This was not illogical.  _ Living  _ was not illogical...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahaha give us today our daily angst and forgive us our typos  
> hope that wasn't shit? Idk how to maintain a consistent writing style. See you in a few days or maybe never, who knows?

**Author's Note:**

> For the record I know the sun rises in the east, this is an attempt at worldbuilding. A rather pathetic attempt, but whatever.  
> Umm I'm not really certain what this is or how long it will go. I don't really understand the SMP canon, so this is...an interesting amalgamation of the bits my brain latched onto. Don't expect this to update regularly.


End file.
